eyes and listen. As if maybe if I don’t look at Brogan’s empty shell of a body, he’ll be able to talk to me—he’ll be able to tell me he understands. But all I get is the ceiling fan—Whoomph. Whoomph. Whoomph—and cars spraying water on the sidewalk as they drive down the street in front of the house.
“Of course you would, sweetie.” That’s not the voice I’ve been waiting for, and I feel exposed as I turn to see Trish step into the room. How long has she been listening? “We all would,” she continues. She’s been crying. Her face is red and blotchy, her eyes swollen. She comes to stand beside me, and I’m glad she’s there. Something about her falling apart helps me hold it together.
I don’t need to feel stronger than her. This isn’t about strength. The comfort of shared grief is the antithesis of trying to be the stronger one. This is about understanding that our pain is what makes us human, and allowing ourselves to feel it. I can’t feel angry with Trish anymore and can’t blame her for Brogan’s decisions, not when I see her like this, grief laid out and exposed.
“This sucks,” she whispers. “As if it’s not hard enough to say goodbye to someone you love—this is all tangled up in the fight you two had.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “It’s tangled up in our mistakes. I know he betrayed you, but if you feel like you have to blame someone, don’t blame him.” She takes my hands in hers and squeezes them. Her hands are so cold, as if she’s been cuddling with the dead. “I loved him and I decided I’d do whatever it took to get him. I screwed up. I am to blame.” Her eyes plead as she lifts them to mine. “Everyone wants someone to blame, and no one will blame me. I knew he was in love with you and I still . . .”
I turn and wrap her in my arms, and she dissolves into silent sobs against my chest.
“I loved him so much.”
“I know.” I stroke her hair and take a long, deep breath. Damn you, Brogan. He had to have known how she felt, and he should never have messed around with her if he wasn’t going to pursue it. He shouldn’t have done a lot of things, and the reminder of his flaws gives my grief a jagged edge, makes it hurt more with everything that was left unsaid and undone. No wonder we paint our lost loved ones without flaws. This is harder.
When Trish pulls away, she pastes on a smile I know is for my benefit. “He loved you, you know? He loved you with the kind of intensity that makes teenage girls obsessed with romance. He loved you, and I was just so jealous of that. I wanted to steal it. To make it mine. I’m the one to blame here. And I’d trade my life for his.” She holds me by my shoulders for a long time, staring into my eyes. “I want you to know that. I need you to know that I’d give my own life to make it right.”
She seems so melodramatic, and I grimace. I’ve probably said the same to someone along the way. I have to believe her, because if I ever said it, I’m sure I meant it, too. “It doesn’t work like that,” I tell her softly.
“Right.” She releases me and steps around me to study Brogan. She touches his face and runs her fingers along his jaw. “But if it did . . .”
Arrow
There are too many people at my house. A quick glance out the back windows and onto the patio and I count a dozen guys from the team and nearly as many girls.
Mia went to say goodbye to Brogan today, and there have been people milling around since she got home, so I haven’t been able to get her alone and ask how she’s doing.
Trish comes in from the patio and props her sunglasses on the top of her head. She’s had them on out back all afternoon, so I never noticed how swollen her eyes are. She looks as if she’s been crying for days.
“Are you okay?” I ask. It seems like she shows up here as often as she can since I got home, always trying to get me alone. My irritation with her kept me from registering that she’s got to be as